Echo

by Jack McDevitt

  “Oh, yeah. He’s a legendary character, okay. Sometimes I think it’s the failure that makes him so interesting. I mean, he just wouldn’t quit. You have to love him. I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”

  “Well, thanks, Jerry.”

  But Jerry wasn’t finished. “There are others out there. Have to be. The thing is, intelligence is an aberration. But the galaxy is big. Instead of talking as if there’s nobody here except us and the Mutes, we should recognize that the fact there are Mutes shows it’s possible. And with all those worlds, there are going to be others. We’ve become too set in our ways. We have access to the entire galaxy, but we talk as if we have it all to ourselves. Eventually we’re going to run into somebody, and we better damned well be ready so we don’t screw it up the way we did last time.”

  “You mean by shooting at them.”

  “That, too. I suppose the real loss is the lack of imagination. If I were an extraterrestrial, I think I’d find us pretty dumb.”

  “What kind of person was he, Jerry?”

  “He was exactly the man you’d want to have at your back if you got in trouble. You could count on him to do what he said. And he didn’t discourage easily.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Do you know where the name of his ship came from?”

  “The Callisto? It’s one of the moons of Jupiter, isn’t it?”

  “One of the Galilean moons, Chase. One of the four moons that Galileo discovered. When that happened, it shook the medieval worldview. Society was never the same.”

  We set Jacob to do an online hunt for the two men who’d collected the tablet. We couldn’t do that with the woman because she’d kept her back to the imagers.

  The big one turned out to be Brian Lewis, a police officer. The other one was Doug Bannister, who was a medical technician. The bios indicated they both played airball on an amateur team, the Conneltown Dragons. Conneltown was located about fifty kilometers outside Andiquar, on the Melony. We were in the middle of the season, and the Dragons’ next game was the following evening. “Let’s not make an issue of this,” said Alex. “No point going to their homes if we don’t have to. You an airball fan, by any chance?”

  “I guess I am now.”

  The Dragons were at home, playing the Tylerville Hawks. I told Alex I could barely wait, and he said he’d treat for a steak dinner after the game and would that be okay? I told him yes, provided he didn’t sit there during the game explaining the rules to me.

  Several hundred people showed up on a chilly evening. The game would be played on an open field, under lights. The patrons watched from rickety stands. We spotted our two guys right away. The crowd applauded enthusiastically as the hometown players were introduced. The captains met at the center of the field, a coin was tossed, and the teams lined up on opposing sides. Lewis was a starter; Bannister was on the bench.

  For those who don’t pay attention to trivia, it’s enough to say that the game is played with six on a team. The object is to move the ball into the other team’s territory and, using a paddle, whack it into a moving net. The net squeals when a goal is scored, invariably setting off a loud crowd reaction. The game gets its name, and its charm, from the fact that the teams move through shifting gravity fields.

  At no time are players permitted to hold the ball. The gravity gradients in the various fields change constantly, but not abruptly, giving the players time to adjust. But the shifts are unpredictable. It’s one minute up and the next minute down. Maximum gravity permissible is 1.6, which would put me at about 185 pounds. Minimum gravity is zero. I’d always thought of airball as an idiot’s game, and I still do, but that evening I enjoyed myself. And I was impressed with the flexibility and skill of the players.

  The action begins when the referee, with the gravity set at .1, flips the ball high in the air, and the players go up after it.

  The Conneltown team wore gold uniforms, which were embroidered with the team name in blazing script and a shoulder patch depicting a fire-spouting dragon.

  The crowd roared when, during the opening minute, Brian Lewis took advantage of .2 gravity to leap high over a defender and, as they say in the sport, nail the target as it was passing.

  A sizable contingent from Tylerville was apparently present. So both teams had substantial crowd support. It was a close game, and, to the dismay of the locals, the Hawks scored the deciding goal as time ran out.

  Everybody looked exhausted when it ended. We waited in the parking area and spotted Bannister as he came out of the crowd. “Doug,” said Alex, “do you have a minute?”

  He stood trying to figure out if he knew Alex. Then he looked at me and smiled. “Sure,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He had a thin voice, and you had to listen closely to hear what he was saying.

  Alex did the introductions. Then: “Doug, you and Mr. Lewis picked up a rock tablet two days ago in Rindenwood.”

  “Yes. That’s right. Is there a problem?” He seemed a bit nervous. But maybe he was always nervous in the presence of strangers. Or maybe of strange women. He had cinnamon-colored hair, which was already growing thin, and his eyes never quite got clear of the ground.

  “No. No problem. We’re interested in buying the tablet. Do you still have it?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me who does?”

  A woman who had the right dimensions and hair to be the one who’d helped make the pickup appeared from somewhere. I hadn’t seen her in the stands. “This is my wife, Ara,” Doug said.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” Ara said. She was still in her flighty years. But she looked good. Inquisitive dark eyes, black hair cut short, and the body of a dancer. I realized right away she was in charge of the marriage. She simply took over from Doug. “Mr. Benedict,” she said, “we were bringing it back for our aunt. But while we were en route, she decided she didn’t want it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, when we showed it to her, from the skimmer, she said that wasn’t the same one that she’d seen in the ad.”

  “It wasn’t the same one?”

  “She meant it was more worn than she’d expected.”

  “Oh.”

  She shrugged. “So she said she didn’t want it.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “We dropped it in the river.”

  “In the river?” Alex couldn’t conceal his horror.

  “Yes. She thought it was an artifact, but after she saw it, she said it was worthless.”

  “Oh.”

  “And she’d know. She collects stuff like that.”

  We had caught Brian Lewis’s attention. He came over, and we did the introductions again. “Sorry,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice when he heard what we were after. “Yeah. That’s what happened to it. It’s in the river.”

  “Can you tell us where in the river?” asked Alex.

  “Near the Trafalgar Bridge,” said Ara.

  “Right.” Doug made a face, trying to recall details. “We were about a kilometer from the bridge when we ditched it.”

  “Which side?”

  “The east side,” said Ara. “I thought it was more than a kilometer, though. More like three or four.”

  Brian thought about it. “Yeah,” he said. “That might be right.”

  Alex gave them business cards. “Call me if you remember anything else, okay?”

  They assured him they would. Brian walked away while Ara and Doug climbed into a white-and-gold Sentinel. It was the same one they’d used to collect the tablet.

  Alex called Audree Hitchcock, a longtime friend who did oceanic surveys for the Geologic Service. “We’re looking for a rock,” he said.

  “Beg pardon, Alex?” At the beginning of her career, Audree had worked for Gabe, Alex’s uncle. She and Alex saw each other socially on occasion, but it seemed to be more friendship than romance. Audree was a bright, energetic blonde with intense blue eyes and a passion for the theater. She belonged to the Seaside
Players, a local amateur group.

  “It’s a tablet, Audree.” He showed her.

  “What’s it worth?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Probably nothing.”

  “But maybe a lot?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And somebody dropped it into the river?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it bad judgment. Can we rent you for a day?”

  “Where, precisely, did they drop it?”

  “East of the Trafalgar Bridge. They say it’s somewhere between one and four klicks.”

  “Okay. We’ll take a look. It’ll be a couple of days before we can get to it, though.”

  “Good. And, Audree?”

  “Yes, Alex.”

  “Don’t put a lot of effort into it. If it doesn’t show up on the first effort, let it go.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I believe the story.”

  “Okay. I’ll do what I can. By the way, Alex—”

  “Yes, Audree?”

  “We’re doing Moving Target this weekend.”

  “You’re in it?”

  “I’m the target.”

  “I’m not surprised. Can you set a night aside for me?”

  FOUR

  A father can make no more serious error than striving to make his son like himself.

  —Timothy Zhin-Po, Night Thoughts

  Five minutes after we got back to the country house, Jacob announced he had news: “Alex, I’ve located Basil.” Tuttle’s son.

  “Can you put me through to him, Jacob?”

  “Negative. He does not have a link.”

  “No code? Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Portsboro. Near Lake Vanderbolt.”

  “All right. We’ll be home shortly. Thanks, Jacob.”

  “No residential address is listed for him, either.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Ground mail goes to the distribution center. I guess he picks it up there.”

  Alex made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Fortunately, Portsboro’s not far. You want to come?”

  I looked out at the windblown hills below. “Sure,” I said. “This time of year, I love the north country. All that snow—”

  Basil had gone in a different direction from his father. He’d started medical school but never completed his studies. The few who’d written about Sunset Tuttle had little to say about Basil. He’d been married briefly. No known children. Had worked at several jobs before simply walking away to embrace a life of leisure, financed in part by state security, and probably more so by his father.

  After Sunset died, Basil had dropped out of sight. At the time, he would have been in his late twenties.

  We let Audree know where we could be reached and took the Moonlight Line north in the morning. Alex has always had a child’s fascination for trains. He can sit for hours, staring out the window at the passing scenery. Headed north, though, the train passes through farming country. Experts had for centuries been predicting the end of farms, as they had of trains. But both lived on. It appears now there will always be a market for foods produced the old-fashioned way, just as there will be for the sheer practicality and economy of the train. And I’ll confess that there’s something reassuring in the knowledge they’ll probably always be with us.

  In time, the farms gave way to open forest. We climbed mountains, crossed rivers, navigated gorges, and rolled through tunnels. At Carpathia, we had to change trains. We wandered through the gift shop for an hour while snow began to fall. Alex picked up a tee shirt for Audree. It had a picture of the train on it with the logo ALL THE WAY. “I’m not sure I can see her wearing it,” I said.

  He smiled. “It’s all a matter of timing.”

  Then we were on our way again, riding the Silver Star, winding through mountains that rose ever higher. By early evening we arrived in Packwood. There we rented a skimmer and crossed a hundred kilometers over snow-packed forest to Portsboro, population eleven hundred.

  We landed in a parking area on the edge of town, got into our jackets, and climbed out. The cold air felt solid. Like a wall. I turned up the heat in my jacket, and we trudged through the snow, crossed a street, turned a corner, and went into Will’s Café. It was midafternoon, and the place was empty except for three women at one table and a chess game at another. We ordered sandwiches and hot chocolate and asked the waiter, then one of the customers, and finally the owner where Basil Tuttle lived. Nobody seemed to know. They knew he lived in the town, but nobody had any idea where he could be found. “Comes in once in a while,” the owner said. “But that’s all I’ve got.”

  One of the women waved in the general direction of the western horizon and said he “lives out there somewhere.” We left Will’s, went down to the next corner, and tried Mary’s Bar & Grill.

  This time we found someone. Her name was Betty Ann Jones. “I know him,” she said, while the other three people at her table shook their heads disapprovingly. She laughed and raised a hand to reassure them. “Basil likes to be left alone. Are you bill collectors or police or something? Why do you want to see him?”

  “We’re working on a history project,” Alex said. “We’re writing a book about his father. You know who his father was?”

  “Sunset Tuttle?” She couldn’t resist a smirk.

  “Right. Anyhow, we’d like to interview Basil. Is there a way we could get in touch with him?”

  “What’s your name?” she asked. She was probably well into her second century, but she’d kept herself in good shape. Dark skin, shoulder-length brown hair, intelligent eyes. The kind of woman you might expect to find running the gambling table.

  “My name’s Alex Benedict.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, as if she had a running familiarity with the world’s historians.

  “Do you know where he lives?” Alex asked.

  “Of course. Everybody does.”

  “Could you direct us?”

  “It’s complicated. Do you have transportation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, you’ll have to head northwest. Over the Nyka Ridge. Keep going straight until you get to the Ogamee—”

  “The what?”

  “The river.” She stopped and shook her head. Looked out through the windows. It was getting dark. “Do you know him at all?”

  “Not really.”

  “All right. How can I say this? He’s not the world’s most sociable guy. But he’s okay. You said you have transportation, right?”

  “Yes. If you could help us, we’d be grateful.”

  She got more interested. Alex showed her some money.

  “We’d bring you right back,” I said. “As soon as we’re finished. It shouldn’t take long.”

  She thought about it. Looked at the money. “Okay.” She got to her feet. “I keep this even if he won’t let us in, right?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good enough. Let me get my coat.”

  It was one of those hard, cold days, not a cloud in the sky, the sun bright, the temperature down well below zero. We lifted off, and Betty Ann steered me toward the highest mountain in the area. Below, not much was moving. Not even the river, which was frozen. “That’s the Ogamee,” she said. “It’s Kasikan for death.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s fairly melodramatic.” The Kasikans had lived in the area for more than a thousand years and still formed a substantial fraction of the local population. They’d had the north country to themselves for a long time and developed their own language and culture. Where they’d actually originated remains a matter of debate. “Why is it the river of death?” I asked.

  “There’s a legend,” said Betty Ann.

  Isn’t there always?

  “You want to tell us about it?” said Alex. He enjoyed myths and tall tales. They were, after all, an indispensable part of the business.

  “The
story,” she said, “is that Layo Visini, who’s a legendary Kasikan hero, took his son rafting on it. They were drifting downstream, not paying much attention, when they got startled by a kalu.” A kalu is a big lizard with four legs and a substantial appetite. “Anyhow, he backed against the boy and knocked him overboard. The river swept him away. People reported that for years afterward, Visini came down to the river’s edge to mourn the boy. Eventually, he could take the sense of guilt no more, so he threw himself in, and he, too, was drowned.”

  Alex and I looked at each other. I decided to change the subject. “Shouldn’t we call rather than just drop in?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t have a link.”

  “Oh.” I’d assumed he was simply unlisted.

  She pointed off to our right, where a snow-covered rooftop stuck out among the trees. “And that would be Basil’s place.”

  We descended into a clearing, got out, and followed Betty Ann onto a walkway that had been shoveled clear. A bitter wind was blowing in from the north. Ahead, a door opened partway, and a hawk-faced man looked out. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Basil,” said Betty Ann. “I’ve got a couple of people with me who’d like to meet you.”

  Basil was thin. His hair hung down into distrustful eyes, and an unkempt black beard covered most of his shirt. “Who are they, Bet?” he growled.

  “Mr. Tuttle,” said Alex, “I’m Alex Benedict. This young lady is Chase Kolpath. We’re historians, and we’d like to talk with you for a few minutes if we may.”

  “About what?” He sounded like a guy who had far more important things to do than entertain nitwits.

  “We’re doing a history of the Directorate of Planetary Survey and Astronomical Research. Your father was an important part of that effort.”

  He smiled. There was a flicker of contempt in his eyes. “Why?”

  “Because it was a significant era. We made major advances during the last century.”

  “I mean, why was my father important?”

  Alex had hoped there’d be no trouble from the son. He kept his voice level. “He was a contributor.”